The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,164
mission in life to keep them clear of invaders. The world outside was full of those curious beings that occasionally - unwisely - tried to touch him or pick him up. But they were too big to get into the vents. Here, it was Slag versus the rats. And while there had been some epic struggles in his time, fought against large and vicious opponents, Slag had always dominated. He'd never come across an enemy he couldn't beat. He didn't know the meaning of defeat.
He slipped out of the duct into the cargo hold. Cold air was blowing in from the outside, stirring his whiskers and chilling his nose. The cargo ramp was open. Sounds came to him from beyond: people shouting to one another, the clank of machinery, the roar of thrusters as an aircraft accelerated overhead. The sharp tang of aerium gas, vented from a freighter that was touching down. The busy industry of landing pads was terrifying in contrast to the safety of his enclosed world. It was an assault on the senses that confused and intimidated him.
The cargo ramp being open was not unusual. Slag padded out into the centre of the room and sniffed.
That was it. That was what had woken him.
The cowardly one had dared to come aboard.
He made a sinister crooning noise from low in his throat. The thought of that pathetic specimen on his territory made him angry. He listened, and heard scurrying footsteps in the corridor overhead, the main passageway that ran down the spine of the aircraft.
This wasn't the first time, either. He knew his prey had sneaked aboard several times recently. Sometimes Slag detected him and chased him away. Other times, he'd been busy in the depths of the aircraft, and all that was left when he emerged was the sour smell of fear and sweat.
Slag's instinct was to chase him off again. But he was an old cat, a veteran of many secret wars, and he'd learned a thing or two. He knew how the rats would keep coming back, no matter how many times he killed them. There were always more. Unless he hunted them down to their lair. Kill them there, kill the mothers, and the rats didn't come back.
He could chase off the intruder, but the intruder would return. It was time to take an altogether more crafty approach. He'd take the fight to his enemy.
Slag padded down the cargo ramp. He could see the enemy's lair, a few dozen yards away. The place where he slept and hid. The cowardly one was smugly content there, behind the transparent shell that sheltered him. Secure in the knowledge that Slag wouldn't cross the gap between the aircraft.
The sight of the Firecrow infuriated him. The shell was open, too. It was a taunt beyond endurance. His enemy thought Slag was too weak to come and get him. He thought that Slag was too afraid to brave the sky.
But Slag refused to be afraid of anything.
He went down to the end of the ramp. Beyond it, dozens of people worked around a huge metal craft. Tractors chugged past, hauling jangling trailers of metal pipes. The air stank of petrol. There were so many threats out there. Too many to keep track of.
Above him, beyond the jutting stern of the Ketty Jay, there was no ceiling. Only a rucked blanket of feathery whiteness, impossibly high. The sheer size of the outside crushed him. He crouched down unconsciously, flattening his ears, making himself small. Was the cowardly one really worth this? Wouldn't it be enough to simply chase him away again?
No. This had gone on too long. And Slag didn't know how to lose.
He put one paw out on to the cold surface of the landing pad, then looked around quickly, in case any of the roaring machines had noticed his transgression. He put his other paw down next to it.
Nothing happened. He glanced up at the sky. The hazy white blanket seemed to be staying up there.
He fixed his gaze on the enemy's lair. The open cockpit. The ladder rungs, built into the flank of the craft, that would take him there.
He moved hi- back legs : r: ard. until all four paws were on the tarmac. His tail still lay flat on the lip of the cargo ramp. His last connection with the Ketty Jay.
The big people were occupied. The machines paid him no attention.